Choices
by Moonlit Aria
Summary: "Since the moment he knew he loved Nightfall more than the next breath which would ensure his continued existence, Redlance had hoped beyond reason that he might come to know her soul and she his own." [ The eve of war, vignette based on Quest's End. ]


  
**Disclaimer**: I do not presume to put up the pretense of owning ElfQuest or any of the characters mentioned in this story. They are the property of Warp Graphics, created by Wendy and Richard Pini. However, if anyone has a Redlance plushie they'd like to donate to my obsession . . . please do. =)  
  
  
  


**Choices**  
_by Moonlit Aria_  


  
  
Moments prior to the sudden beating of the drums that rose heatedly to accentuate the frenzied voices which filled the smoke-hazed lodge, a protest would have pushed past his lips on the topic of _war_. The word was a new term for the old way he had so reverently opposed, the ways of living a previous chief had led the tribe towards out of anger and hatred for the five-fingered beings the Wolfriders lived in fear of. Although he had only been a cub when the last serious threat of all out war against the humans had been considered by Bearclaw, Cutter's father, he had stood with his parents — the gentle and mild ones who preserved the way in their hearts — against the idea.  
  
Even after his loving mother and brave father had been cut down by the stony blades of man origin, he had protested revenge. Madcoil, the serpent of magical birth which strove only to senselessly slaughter, only further enhanced his scorn of conflict. Not even being torn from his tribe, tortured brutally, and pushed to the brink of death could sway his choice of thought.  
  
_We are hunters, _he had informed the chief he loved so well, wearily, in attempt to instill understanding within his mind, _Not murderers_.  
  
Yet, as he had felt as a cub, he was silenced by the overwhelming cries against his own opinion and muted so that even if he dared to raise his voice in protest . . . would anyone hear such a feeble shout? And, despite the fact that he was many turns the elder of some who most loudly cried for battle among the tribe, he was silenced by the old fear he had long since hoped was dead. As a child, playing at hunting and scouting with Foxfur and Pike, he had been apprehensive of their judgment, apprehensive of their mocking laughter or comments. Though grown, both into maturity and the elusive magical power that had been the cause of much of his torment, Redlance still feared being looked upon a different from his tribe. If they wished to make war upon the trolls for the Palace of the High Ones, he could not play the outsider of the circle. The stakes were too high, the prize too great, and the willpower much too strong.  
  
Instead, he deferred from the celebration of life in the shadow of death, turning his attention to the young of both tribes with a stab of heartfelt agony. Two cubs — a self-assured Ember and unsure Suntop — of the Wolfriders, opposed to the eight and six cubs of Go-Back parents, none of which begotten as a result of recognition. "Time for bed," he announced to the eldest of the Go-Back children, Baln, who was eager to depart from the dance, gathering the other cubs with him, as not to infringe upon the rights and honors of the adults.  
  
"We have not earned the right!" Redlance overheard the sharp tongue of the youth snap at a faintly whining Ember, who had naively wished to stay and watch the dance. She had, after all, been fascinated with the dancing the Go-Backs did to honor their departed, which was very different from the slowly sensual movements and music of Sorrow's End. "The dance is only for those who will fight — maybe _die_ — tomorrow! Don't whine! We'll get our turn someday."  
  
The words Baln spoke harshly, yet no doubt to comfort Ember, only served to reiterate the fact that the Go-Backs knew nothing of peace — their war had began many turns of the seasons before and lasted so long that the point had virtually been forgotten. Their struggle to reach the Palace of the High Ones had turned into a battle for the sake of battle and it was all they lived and died for. Would, someday, the Wolfriders live like that, as well? Would, someday, he be forced to place a toy sword in the hands of his children to teach them how to use it before anything else?  
  
By the time the image of a fiery-haired little girl attempting to wield Nightfall's overly large bow imbedded itself into his mind, not even the fast beat of the drums, harsh and unlike the instruments from the Sun Village, could rouse him from the disturbing reverie. Only the soft, familiar touch of his lovemate startled him from the thoughts and he found himself staring at the empty stone steps which led to one of the many dens of the lodge, where the children had been but a moment before. "Dance with me, love," Nightfall whispered against his shoulder, having stooped from their equal height to bury her lovely features and golden eyes into the depths of his blazing hair.  
  
"For war?" he countered, not going rigid against her loving caresses, but melting into her with a sigh. His resolution did not go so far as to change his feelings for her, nothing could do that. "It isn't the way, Nightfall, it isn't . . . "  
  
"Perhaps it is, beloved, have you ever thought?" Her fingers, vaguely calloused from working tirelessly at the bow and sword as her vengeance for Woodshaver fueled, entwined with his own slowly, the soft sigh of her breath playing against the hair falling onto his back and the silken cloth of desert origin he wore in the heat of the Go-Back lodge. "If there is no other way, but war, then isn't it the way we must follow?"  
  
"You _are_ a warrior, my love," he spoke softly, the fire of her fingertips setting ablaze within him the sparks no doubt revitalizing the blood flowing through nearly every vein in the room. For him, it was not the looming threat of death, but as it had always been with Nightfall . . . a passionate love he could hardly contain at times and hardly control at others and never dared to think of what it might be to live without it, as surely it would leave and become a gaping void if she were gone from his life. Thinking about that possibility was not the way, either, but at times — especially the times of death and destruction — it could not be helped. Turning, so that his back was not to her and his gentle eyes could rest upon her own, which were fierce with emotion and excitement, he brought his hand not entwined with her own upwards to stroke across her cheek. "You are the arrow, while I am the vine. My path is not the one that leads to war, but I will never shy from battle if it comes to me."  
  
"I know, beloved. You will stay where your heart is, with the children, and I will answer the call of the Palace of the High Ones."  
  
"My heart is wherever you are, Nightfall, not where my mind tells me my place is or my gut tells me is right. _You_ will always have my heart." Despite the fact that her voice had been soft and caring, Redlance could not help but flinch at the way her statement sounded — he wanted nothing more than to stand within the home of the mothers and fathers of their race, but how else would it feel but bloodstained if they slaughtered so many, of whatever race, to get there?  
  
Words left them then, their emotions running too deep to be expressed through speech, leaving only the mingling of thoughts and feelings to convey, in truth, what was felt within their hearts, minds, and spirits. Indeed, it was a love that existed throughout in such a powerful way. Soon enough, he had told her without speech all that his mind could not put to words and urge him enough to utter . . . and she had forgiven him needlessly, soothed his questioning mind, and brought light back to the brooding, searching darkness that had filled him. And there, in her loving embrace, he forgot what was to transpire at dawn, forgot the risks that lay ahead, and gave into the surge of his blood to dance.  
  
Voices raised in song consorted with the hearty howling of the Wolfriders, becoming a frenzied vocalization of the emotions running rampant on the eve of a blackened dawn. In the dying light of the circular fire pit, the coals burning orange and casting the central room of the lodge into a glow akin to dusk, various metallic weapons gleamed as they were incorporated into the dance, flashing in grim reminder of the events to unfold.  
  
None of the troll-forged weapons, ironically to be turned against their creators, tore into his skin as the one crafted by the smiths below the forest floor and repaired by the ones of the desert when he noted it flickering in his love's hand. Although it had never been used for much more than the hunt and to whittle pieces of soft wood into small, vaguely artistic creations, the golden light bathed it in a gleam of destruction . . . so much so that he pulled her closer and casually coerced her into casting the blade away with the fleetingly gentle caress of his lips.  
  
When at last the rhythmically inclined hands had left off the musical instrument keeping time for the dancing and vocalization, there was little need for the rumbling melody at all, as the previously raised voices had dwindled from spirited war cries to cries of another nature. And, at last exhausted from the close heat of the lodge and the dancing, Redlance allowed himself to be pulled into the molten sea of embraces and found himself smothered by the warmth and sensuality of a nameless warrior of Kahvi's clan, quite near to where his beloved had found herself in quite the same manner.  
  
Lingering for some time in the company of the unknown female, Redlance eventually exchanged the unfamiliar for that which he knew and loved so well, which surprisingly did not offend as it might have with the desert people of the Sun Village — they toyed with love, perhaps, where the Go-Backs enjoyed the moment. _** My beloved, **_ he addressed her with the quiet fluttering of his mind, pulling her into his arms and away from her own nameless warrior. It was not the night to share.  
  
It was the night for them, together.  
  
Perhaps for the last time.  
  
  


* * *  


  
  
The tension before dawn had grown to the point that it fell heavily upon his heart as if the weight of the world, in a manner he was unaccustomed to, settled upon his chest and stifled his ability to breathe. "Your dagger . . . " was all he could bring himself to say, producing the blade he had urged her to toss away not very long before and relinquishing it to her.  
  
Her golden eyes, the color so like to her curled tresses, reflected the gratitude that could not be spoken over the rapidly forming lump in her throat. Instead, she fixed the cap of soft green- and brown-dyed leather upon her head and secured it there by knotting the back in the usual fashion she did. Almost, it seemed that they were simply rising from sleeping out the day and about to go about their usual nighttime business . . . except for the grief in her eyes and the pain in his heart — as if she had been struck down already and the most vital organ of his being, which went with her, had died by her side.  
  
"Nightfall, I — "  
  
_** Beloved, ** _she interrupted, extending her hands to take him into the comforting embrace they had so often shared. Pressing her brow to his, which was encircled with the coronet of gold, Nightfall fixed him with an intent gaze. _** . . . joinings mean much or little, my gentle one. But . . . this parting might mean forever. You guard the cubs . . . I go to war . . . but I must stay with you. **_  
  
Apprehension took over as his fears and questions were stilled by the heavy tone of her mind's gentle voice. He had promised his heart to her, but something within him foretold that she was about to instill within him more than a fanciful promise between lovers.  
  
_** There is one way, beloved _— _** _she continued, her eyes shutting suddenly to stem the flow of tears in an attempt to be brave. Redlance had see her grieve for many things and had soothed or kissed away her tears before, which made her attempt to cease them even more powerful a gesture. _** Twen. I am . . . Twen . . . Twen! **_  
  
And, instantly, he was being once again tackled by a raging wild cat . . . again he fell from a branch of a tree . . . again he was caught by the butt of a human's spear . . . all the most painful, surprising experiences of his life were rolled into one feeling, overshadowed by the thought that he was so utterly unworthy of her precious gift. Her soul name, instilled within him for the grimmest of reasons, was all at once a painful, touching, heart-wrenching experience. Since the moment he knew he loved Nightfall more than the next breath which would ensure his continued existence, Redlance had hoped beyond reason that he might come to know her soul and she his own.  
  
Now, her soul name had been thrust upon him to be cherished, perhaps, as the last part of her for him to have after the dust of war had settled. And he was unable to speak or think or do anything by stare in shock as she tearfully moved away to join the departing warriors. Even as the children left behind in the lodge gathered around him, flanked by the wolves, he could do nothing more but stare.  
  
Finally, as the door swung closed after the army of two elf tribes filed out into the snow, he felt the warmth of a single tear slide down his cheek. Whether a tear of joy or a tear of pain or a tear of fear . . . he did not know.  
  
_And I am Ulm, _he responded, barely coming to his senses. Yet, he had only said it within his thoughts and left himself shocked, again, by the fact that he hadn't the courage to pursue her mind with the reply.  
  
Somewhere within, however, he comforted himself with the thought that it would be the first thing he would do upon her return. She _would_ return . . . as, finally, they had chosen. 


End file.
